


orbital

by ictus



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Commanding Officer/Subordinate, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Power Imbalance, Tattoos, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22581016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Ayel and Nero have their own way of remembering.
Relationships: Ayel/Nero (Star Trek)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	orbital

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Measured_Words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/gifts).



> Canon context: takes place shortly after the _Narada_ crew were liberated from the Klingon prison planet, and days before the main events of the film. 
> 
> A million thanks to my beta asuralucier for her insight and encouragement!

The stardate comes around as it always does: inevitable, inexorable. Ayel doesn’t need to track the days on the ship’s log to know it’s approaching; his grief runs deep, all the way down to his bones where it weighs on him like lead. On this day in particular, it’s so heavy that it feels almost as though he’s moving underwater—his grief as powerful as the gravitational pull of a sun, a force greater than himself that he cannot hope to escape.

So he doesn’t try to.

There’s an old saying in Rihannsu: _talat uan aeth aigre iurrha aeivha._ In Standard, it roughly translates as _pain shared is lessened_.

Standing at his post on the bridge and surveying the battle-worn faces of his crew, Ayel thinks there’s only one person aboard this ship who feels pain as deeply as he does, and only one person with whom the burden is lessened. 

Nero hasn’t needed to call on Ayel on this day, not since the first time. As the First Officer, Ayel knows what’s required of him, and he carries out his duties without additional instruction.

This task is no different. 

Ayel readies his tools with all the care of a surgeon: torch, needle, salve. Herbs, basin, cloth. Pigment. Ink.

Nero hasn’t reported to the bridge today, his absence made even more conspicuous by the fact that nobody has dared to comment on it. When the time comes, Ayel doesn’t need to ask where to find him.

Nero’s quarters are buried deep within the ship, right at its very heart. Ayel makes his way through the familiar labyrinth, his anticipation building with every step, and when he arrives outside the Captain’s quarters, he’s admitted before he can even press his thumb to the bioreader.

Ayel stands motionless before the open door for half a second too long. Although Nero doesn’t comment, Ayel’s certain his hesitation hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“Prod Nero,” Ayel says, finally crossing the threshold. It’s an old title, one of the Empire, and one of the few Nero still permits. Even after all these years, it feels more natural than _Captain_ or _Commander_.

Nero himself is already on the bed, face down and motionless. Even in the half-dark, the web of tattoos that spans his back stands stark against his skin, a tribute to loss and failure.

The air feels thick and still, and when the door slides shut behind him, Ayel can’t shake the feeling that he’s being entombed.

“We are still on course to the coordinates you’ve calculated,” Ayel says. “It is estimated we will arrive within a few days.”

It feels wrong to be giving a mission report in the sanctity of Nero’s private quarters, even more so for the way Ayel is currently touching him. Ayel draws the cloth over Nero’s back, keeping his contact impersonal, clinical. Nero doesn’t flinch at his touch, although his muscles do tighten with every press of Ayel’s hands.

Ayel dips the cloth back into the basin, then wrings out the excess water. The room is filled with the smell of herbs, bitter and antiseptic, all of them scavenged from a planet so distant, it might as well not have a name.

Ayel hesitates as he brings the cloth back to Nero’s skin. “If we increase our warp factor, we could arrive within—”

“Do it,” Nero says.

Ayel pauses, but only for a moment. “Yes, Captain.”

Romulans are not tactile creatures by nature, but Ayel would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t missed this; being close to another, the simple press of skin on skin. Nero doesn’t comment when Ayel straddles his hips, nor when Ayel begins to trace the intricate design onto his skin.

Regardless of how many times he’s done this, Ayel can never become accustomed to the sight of his Praetor spread out beneath him, vulnerable and exposed. Ayel’s gaze lingers on the nape of Nero’s neck (just the right pressure could grind those delicate bones to dust), then drifts lower to his waist (even a shallow blade could pierce and rupture his heart), and feels his breathing quicken. Nero’s body has been hardened by decades of hard work and years of captivity, littered with scars that Ayel has come to know as well as his own. One of them is a relic from their time in prison, a series of deep gouges over Nero’s scalp that had left him with a mangled ear. Another is the result of a mining accident, a rockfall that left his arm pinned so badly, even the dermal regenerator hadn’t been able to repair the damage.

But there’s a another scar that catches Ayel’s eye. A near-fatal knife wound low on Nero’s abdomen, right above his heart.

Ayel still remembers the day of the attack, less than a year after they’d passed through the black hole. Neraik, the former First Officer, had taken exception to Nero’s leadership and had attempted to orchestrate a coup. Unfortunately for Neraik, he was an engineer, not a soldier, and had missed his mark by mere inches.

Once Ayel had ensured the Captain’s survival, he’d headed to the brig to take care of the traitor himself. He had taken Neraik’s own dagger and used it against him until Neraik was nothing more than a writhing mess of exposed nerves and congealed blood. Neraik had screamed and begged for mercy, and Ayel had only smiled in response, meticulously hacking away at his flesh until nothing but bone remained.

As Ayel runs his hand over the scar, he can’t help but think that despite endangering Nero’s life, the attack had been fortuitous. Neraik’s betrayal had given him the opportunity to dispose of a traitorous crewmember, and Ayel has been serving as First Officer ever since.

“It’s been twenty-five years,” Nero says as Ayel prepares the needle. Even after all this time, Standard still sounds clumsy on his tongue. Ever since the destruction of Romulus, their native tongue has been just another reminder of all they’ve lost. Nero had forbidden anyone from speaking Rihannsu, and has insisted his crew use Standard ever since.

“Our wait is almost at its end,” Ayel replies finally. Even though it’s truer than ever, the words feel empty and hollow; a platitude spoken so often, it’s almost lost all its meaning. 

The room is briefly illuminated by an orange glow as Ayel lights the torch, passing the point of the needle through the hottest part of the flame. The needle slowly blackens until it’s as dark as the ink on Nero’s skin.

“I still dream about it,” Nero murmurs quietly. “Those last moments before the supernova.”

Ayel falters. Nero has never spoken candidly of his grief before, choosing instead to bury it deep inside him. As Captain, Nero has a duty to his crew, and that strength has never wavered.

Slowly, Ayel reaches out to place a hesitant hand on Nero’s shoulder. “Captain—”

“I’m ready,” says Nero shortly, and roughly shakes Ayel’s hand off him.

The technique is centuries old, one of the few traditions left that ties them to their past.

Ayel knows that they could have stopped at any spacedock and had this done in a matter of minutes. Modern technology has rendered the process of tattooing as painless as it is instantaneous, reducing the ancient artform to nothing more than a subdermal stamp.

No, there’s something sacrosanct about this particular process: heating the needle, dipping it in the ink, and slowly pressing it through the skin, watching ink bloom underneath the surface.

Nero doesn’t flinch when the needle first pierces his skin; years of discipline has allowed him to tamper his reactions. Instead, he seems to relax with every press of the needle, as if each spark of pain were atonement for a crime, absolution of the purest form. Ayel works methodically, steady-handed as ever, filling in the outlines with ink. 

The design is as ancient as the technique itself, tribal markings of the old Empire. While all the crew bear these markings, this particular piece is twenty-five years in the making. Every year on the anniversary of Romulus’s destruction, Ayel adds to the design. Ayel had started at the base of Nero’s skull and now, more than two decades later, he finds himself here: right at the bottom of Nero’s spine, at the point of its deepest curve.

Ayel traces the knob of the vertebra, filling in the ink right over the bone, then works slowly outwards until Nero’s skin is more black than not. Nero doesn’t speak again, nor does he let any sounds of discomfort escape his lips. Nero has always born his pain in silence, and this is no exception.

Ayel’s almost regretful as he withdraws the needle for the final time. The thought of going back to his quarters alone is unappealing, but it would be improper for him to stay and draw this out any longer than it needs to be. So he puts the needle aside and carefully recaps the ink, and says—

“It’s done.”

Ayel’s voice is hoarse with disuse. There’s no chronometer in Nero’s quarters, but he would estimate they’ve been here for hours.

Nero doesn’t reply but he does shift slightly, stretching out muscles that have remained lax for far too long. Ayel takes some of the salve and begins applying it to the newly-inked skin. He keeps his touch light and clinical, hurrying in spite of (because of) how badly he wants to linger.

Ayel’s barely taken a step towards the door when he feels a firm hand on his arm, holding him still.

It’s quickly followed by Nero’s voice.

“Stay.”

Ayel hadn’t expected this; not on this day, and certainly not like _this_.

Nero’s grip is painfully tight on Ayel’s wrists where he has them pinned over Ayel’s head, preventing him from even the slightest movement. Nero holds Ayel’s knee to his chest with his other hand, keeping Ayel spread open beneath him. Ayel would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this—fantasised about it, even. Ayel’s devotion to Nero is absolute, but he never imagined, never _dreamed_ his Captain would want him in this way.

Ayel’s breath catches when Nero finally presses inside him, and for a moment everything seems to freeze around them. Ayel’s suddenly conscious of a hundred tiny details: Nero’s breath on his neck, the smell of salve in the air, the press of Nero’s nails digging into the tender skin of his wrists.

Nero exhales sharply when he presses in all the way, the sound too harsh to be one of pure pleasure. Ayel is helpless beneath him, unable to do anything but arch against him as he struggles to adjust to the feeling of Nero inside him, splitting him open.

“Captain, I—”

Nero silences Ayel with a hand over his mouth, and Ayel’s eyes flutter closed in surrender. For one perfect moment, Nero is completely still, and Ayel loses himself in the feeling of Nero inside him, his head spinning with the intimacy of Nero’s touch. Until—without warning—Nero begins to move.

Nero fucks Ayel brutally, mercilessly, as if he’s trying to channel every last repressed emotion into it. As if he’s been wanting to do it for a while. Ayel grits his teeth against the pain as Nero slams into him with nothing but the salve to ease the way, and when Nero adjusts his hips and fucks him _just so_ , Ayel grits his teeth against the pleasure too. When Nero finally comes it’s with a shout that’s been torn from deep inside him, a primal sound that Standard has no words for.

Afterwards, Nero collapses on top of him, his body heavy and warm. All Ayel can do is steady his breathing, and try not to enjoy the press of Nero’s body against his. 

Nero says nothing as Ayel redresses.

Ayel’s still desperately hard as he refastens his pants, and he’s all too conscious of the wetness between his legs. Already, bruises are forming on his wrists. He touches his thumb to one, gently at first, then presses harder just to feel it ache.

Eventually, Ayel says, “I am needed on the bridge, Captain.” He isn’t, but staying here is out of the question. Nero doesn’t comment either way.

Ayel’s just approaching the door when he hears Nero call out.

“Wait.”

Ayel freezes, his hand hovering inches away from the sensor. Heart in his throat, Ayel slowly turns to face Nero.

“Captain?”

Nero’s eyes glitter in the half-dark, but his face is otherwise expressionless. “Remember to report to engineering. I want to arrive at the coordinates by tomorrow.”

Humiliation rises in Ayel’s throat. He swallows it down, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches. “Yes, Captain,” he says finally, then excuses himself without another word.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


End file.
